The huzza was interrupted by a yell from the outside, and the long rolling of the English drums. A torrent of red-coats poured into the narrow street, moving steadily forward like fate. Roger at the same moment saw Berwick, on his great bay horse, appear as if out of the ground, and at the same moment with a shout the English soldiers recognized him. Roger saw him tear the white cockade from his hat, dig the spurs into his horse, and leaping a low wall in his path, make off at full speed.
“He is safe, at all events,” cried Roger. This, too, was a lie, for he caught a perfect view of Berwick, as dashing on, he rode straight into the arms of his uncle, Brigadier Churchill, was unhorsed, tall man and tall horse going down together, and when they rose, Berwick was winded and staggering, and the uncle held the nephew by the collar—all of which Roger saw.
Meanwhile, the red-coats in the garden have their hands full. They are plainly seen through the grille, and the English foot-soldiers try every means to dislodge them. The Whigs try climbing the wall—their opponents within the garden shouting to them menacingly,—
“Come on, ye toads, and have at ye!”
And then pitching the wounded back to be trampled upon by others, the red-coats rush at the iron gate and try to tear it down; but they only leave a rampart of their bodies still further to protect those inside. The battle rages all around them,—in the village, in the fields behind, in the plain beyond,—but the company of Egremont is besieged in the walled garden. There is no artillery at hand to dislodge them; it is man to man, fusil to fusil, countryman to countryman, the scarlet coat to the scarlet coat. It is hard work, but the men complain of nothing but want of drink.
“Never mind, my lads,” says Roger, smiling, “the other fellows are as thirsty as we, and they are not so comfortable as we, safe in a pleasant garden on this broiling day, with a cool summer-house to rest in when we are tired; nor as easy in their minds, for we live or die as becomes honest men.”
Hours pass, the roar of battle never ceasing, and the steady thunder of eighty great guns concentrated upon the French centre knowing no pause or rest. The company of Egremont had been holding its own since eight o’clock in the morning. The tide has surged back and forth, but never has it receded far enough to let them escape, or advanced near enough to overwhelm them. Some poor fellows lie stark on the mossy ground; a dozen wounded men are stretched in the little summer-house,—they want nothing but victory and water.
Roger Egremont, with a great gash over his forehead, his head tied up in a handkerchief, with his white cockade pinned to it, has borrowed a fusil from a soldier and is taking a shot through the iron gate at the men struggling in the village street. His red coat is torn open,—it is cruelly hot, and he has worked hard since daylight,—and his white shirt has some bloodstains on it. Opposite is a tall stone house for which both sides have fought desperately, the French being in possession. Suddenly, through the uproar comes the sharp blare of a fife playing “Les Folies en Espagne.”
“That’s a French tune, my lads,” shouts Roger; and then comes a rush of white cockades and the splendid uniforms, now bedraggled, of the household troops of Louis le Grand; and presently that frightful thunder of the English, Dutch, and German batteries which had never ceased its dreadful clangor since noon, began to falter, and when at last the iron gate was opened and the company of Egremont marched out in good order with their bayonets screwed into their muskets, and found the other scarlet coats retreating grimly, and in a manner not to be hurried, the field of Neerwinden was won. The Maréchal de Luxembourg had seen the back of William of Orange that day, but had not shown his own.
Terrible were the losses of the Irish brigade, and Berwick was a prisoner. It was known that after the battle he had marched with the English foot as far as Sichen, being treated with great affection by his uncle, the Brigadier Churchill, who declared to him that his other uncle, the Duke of Marlborough, took much pride in so promising a nephew. Nor were the Whig red-coats a whit behind in respect for so gallant an enemy. Nevertheless, as soon as he fell into the hands of his half-sister’s husband, William of Orange, it was given out that he was to be shut up in the Tower of London, and tried as a prisoner of state, instead of being paroled as a prisoner of war—and that meant a trip to Tyburn, with the block and the headsman awaiting him. The news was very disquieting to the whole French nation, and infuriating to the great brigade which felt itself honored in having had him for a commander. The Maréchal de Luxembourg, however, bade everybody to be easy about Lieutenant-General the Duke of Berwick. The Maréchal held the winning card. Among the prisoners taken by him was the Duke of Ormond. Whatever befell one Duke should befall the other. This intimation, when conveyed in due time to William of Orange, acted like a charm. Berwick was paroled within a week.